


Our House, Caught on Fire

by Synergic



Category: Sleep No More - Punchdrunk
Genre: F/F, Power Dynamics, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:59:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synergic/pseuds/Synergic
Summary: Agnes is not afraid of the things she wants. Maybe that was a part of the trick.





	Our House, Caught on Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FaintlyMacabre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaintlyMacabre/gifts).



Agnes steps off the train at Gallow Green on a chilly October morning, into a light gray mist that threatens to wipe her away instead of washing her clean. The shock of cold forces her to inhale so sharply that vapor seems to settle in her lungs, somewhere deep under her ribs.

She feels certain she won’t breathe easily again until she finds her sister.

The town is small, Grace’s cottage smaller. The size and color reminds Agnes of a faded flower closed tight around itself, sweet and stale. Without its owner the front parlor is too quiet— undisturbed in the most disturbing way possible. She’ll have to dig through her sister’s papers eventually, privacy taking a back seat to desperation. But at the moment the pitifully small stack of letters on Grace’s desk might as well be a mountain, and Agnes runs from it as if she expects an avalanche.

She doesn’t intend to wander far; truly, there isn’t anywhere to go. Three shops, a shuttered office building. But there is a light across the street, garishly red. Not the kind of sign she would usually feel drawn to, but at the moment it’s like a spot of life in a graveyard.

The alleyway ends in nothing. The back door to a decrepit bar, unhelpfully locked and bolted.

“You can’t go that way, my dear.”

The words fill the alleyway completely— rich as velvet, softly appealing. When Agnes turns she finds herself face to face with a woman who matches the voice: an abundance of lush curves wrapped in red silk and an overripe smile that seems as if it would sit naturally on her lips with or without a target. But Agnes is here and she feels the full force of it, dangerously sweet and tart.

She is not surprised that Grace never mentioned this neighbor, a woman so clearly no better than she should be.

“You could come and keep me company instead.” The lady in red says indolently. She’s not bothering to sugar-coat the offer . . . and yet, there’s something almost motherly in the sympathy of her smile. As if she’s trading on a currency Agnes should understand, an understanding between women.

Agnes is sure she ought to refuse, but she can feel her knees threatening to give out from under her, and the memory of that tomblike parlor is fresh in her mind. Instead she clings to the offer like a shipwrecked sailor would. Not entirely sure she’s made landfall but grasping at her next best hope.

The stranger pours her a cup of tea that’s dark and fragrant with a spiced-sandalwood steam that seems to flood her senses, overbrewed until it’s strong as copper and as bitter as wine. It’s not comforting, untamed by milk, or sugar, or any other kind of moderation. But it is warming. Agnes wraps her hands around it, half wonders if she should drink all tea this way.

Her hostess— Hecate —is the same. Not comforting, but there’s something vibrant to her. She radiates. Agnes finds herself following the woman with her eyes as she brushes through the room. Picking up a stray is apparently not enough to keep her from her routines: dabbing scent behind her ears, dashing off a hasty note. (There’s a distinct lip print at the corner of the paper, leaving little doubt as to its contents, though Agnes can’t crane far enough to read the sprawling cursive words.)

It isn’t insulting, because Agnes never feels ignored. There’s never a moment’s doubt that this woman commands the room, is aware of everything in it from the drape of the curtains to the comfort of her unexpected guest. Agnes pictures her chased by the brightness of a spotlight, spinning the plates of her tea service high into the air with the ease of a trained acrobat. 

She asks: “Are you a performer?”

Hecate smiles, lips red past bearing and glossed with a candy-coated sheen. “I sing a little, sometimes.”

Art, theater, photography. These are Grace’s passions, not hers. Agnes doesn’t know why she presses her hands together in delight, except that she wants keep her hostess happy. “I love music,” she listens to herself say, and blushes at the lie. “Can I hear you?”

The old couch creaks a little under the weight of two when Hecate joins Agnes at the coffee table. “My work starts late. You may be busy, by that time.” 

The cushions have sunk, drawing them towards each other as if they’re sharing secrets. Agnes sees the sharp edges of her hostess’ wicked grin, knows she’s being mocked but not why. She straightens up and protests, feeling like a child. “I’m not afraid of the night.”

“Aren’t you, though?”

Hecate looks at her, openly assessing, and Agnes is not prepared for the shock of heat that runs through her, pooling somewhere low in her stomach. It’s not the first time she’s felt this way— far from it —but she’s never imagined herself to be so instantly, dangerously _known._ But Agnes is not a coward. She lifts her chin and returns that inscrutable gaze; willing herself not to burn.

The lady laughs, teeth shocking white against her perfectly painted mouth. Her nails are long, they trace Agnes’ cheek before she feels the press of her hand. “You,” she says, “Are stronger than you look. Perhaps it _would_ be worth my while to see you again.”

Agnes is not afraid of the things she wants. Maybe that was a part of the trick.

Hecate’s mouth is not as gentle as her touch. Kissing her is a sudden burst of heat, lips silk-slippery as her dress, and Anges presses forward as she tries to find a purchase there. The kiss blooms and matures in a moment; lasts forever, but is over almost as soon as it begins. It leaves Agnes breathless, aching with a pulse that almost seems to exist outside her body. Her eyelids are heavy, she feels dizzier than want could make her.

Then she realizes, with a shock that can’t force her heart to pump faster, that she cannot raise her aching head.

“What have you done to me?” She asks, though her tongue is suddenly a foreign object, thick with the taste of spices.

She feels Hecate bend close again, a brush of lips against her cheek, the sensuous whisper of shining fabric. Her tone is the same as ever, inviting and kind, rose petal softness. “Don’t worry,” she says, though it is a struggle to hear her over the throb of Agnes’ heart. “You won’t remember any of this. But you’ll find me again, Agnes Naismith, and give me what your sister owes. That’s an order.”

Agnes’ vision is nothing but a blur now, drawing inaccurate halos all around the room. Her thoughts are slow as honey, crystallizing into a cell. She can’t think beyond the moment. Not even for Grace. “You . . . put something in the tea.” 

This time, the lady’s laugh is nothing but sharp edges. “Never,” she promises, “An innocent might have drunk that.”

Her eyes trail almost lovingly over Agnes’ face, move past her to the glossy tabletop and the uncapped tube of lipstick, artfully abandoned there.

Agnes takes these poisonous words, and she makes them into a promise. She doesn’t need to remember this, because next time she _will_ be innocent, canny and cautious, and understanding will not come too late. 

Now— while she is still lost —Agnes kisses her lady in red again.

This time it burns her up, and then it burns her out.


End file.
